mountain cotton


The country road continued on like a straight grey patchwork quilt towards the mountains that stretched with dark green limbs towards the sky, the same mountains that were pimpled with huge cotton ball clouds that clung tenaciously to the trees that populated the mountainsides, sticking like lint to Velcro. My dad and I use to ski on those same mountains, once, seemingly long ago, a lifetime ago. I use to love going skiing with him, silently driving in the early morning stillness up the long winding roads enveloped by thick cloud cover, slowly plodding through the damp curtain of cloud only to suddenly come shooting through the grey and white veil and into the bright winter sunlit sky as we neared the ski hill. I loved being above it all, and he seemed to smile every time it happened, because it seemed so rare that we ever got to see the sun in Vancouver.

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